


Five Times the Coulsons Surprised Clint Barton

by Schuyler



Series: Mr. and Mrs. and PJ (and Clint) [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Men in Black (Movies), The Avengers (TV)
Genre: 5 Times, Agent K is Phil Coulson's Father, Christmas, First Time, M/M, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-17
Packaged: 2018-01-12 18:43:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1195512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schuyler/pseuds/Schuyler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil takes an injured Clint Barton home for Christmas. His parents handle the rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times the Coulsons Surprised Clint Barton

**Author's Note:**

> This is an unholy mashing up of fandoms. Canonical through The Avengers (2013) and Grant Morrison's "Steed and Mrs. Peel: The Golden Game". The MIB stuff is all kinds of not canonical.
> 
> Favors and firstborns to Eleanor and blackbird, who beta'ed and cheered, even when I mostly just complained about this fic over drinks.

  **1\. Phil**

There are a lot of ways in which Clint is not a very good agent.

He has excellent field skills, but a tendency to nod off during meetings and tell junior agents lies to scare them. He ignores orders when a teammate is in danger (including once almost letting a Prime Minister die to keep Natasha alive). He goes through far more equipment than an agent in his position should. But the thing that really stands out to everyone in SHIELD is that he’s not afraid of Phil Coulson. He was, when he was new. Then, in his fourth year with the organization, four days before Christmas, he’d been shot. Well, really, it was a spear thrown by a spy who Clint had chased into the Arms & Armor wing of the Metropolitan Museum of Art (long story). It wasn’t sharp enough to pierce, but it was thrown with enough force to crack Clint’s bottom two right-side ribs and bruise his kidney.

He was fine, really, but there was livid bruising all up and down his side and a risk of blood clotting or cardiac complications, so he wasn’t allowed to go home alone. Natasha was undercover and Clint lived alone, no one to check in on him and make sure he didn’t drop dead.

He was sitting in the hospital bed that would be his at least through New Year’s, trying to buy enough books from Barnes & Noble’s website to keep himself occupied, when his handler showed up at the door with two full duffel bags and the nurse on duty standing behind him.

“Come to say goodbye?” Clint said, trying to force a smirk.

Phil's expression was exasperated and fond, a look Clint was getting to know fairly well. (Clint was getting to know all of Phil’s looks fairly well, because he was almost always paying attention. When he’d realized he couldn’t beat the hopeless crush on the single most dangerous man he’d ever met, he’d figured he might as well wallow.)

“Come to pick you up. Nurse Taylor won’t let you out unless someone looks after you and I promised my mom I’d go home for Christmas, so it looks like you’re coming too.”

“Are you serious?”

Phil shrugged. “I already packed your quarters, so apparently.”

Clint looked over at Nurse Taylor, a man who could easily bench press either of them. “It’s fine by me. I trust Agent Coulson to keep you alive. Just came along to see if you want an extra dose of the painkillers for the drive.”

Clint closed his laptop and struggled to sit up all the way, Phil not helping because Clint never wanted that. “No, definitely not. I get all loopy and start babbling. Phil will abandon me on the highway.”

“All right,” he said, leaving the room. “Hit the button if you need anything. Your paperwork’s already signed.” He shut the door behind him, leaving Clint and Phil alone.

Clint looked at Phil, who still stood there like he could wait all day. “Can you at least turn around so I can get dressed?” Phil sighed heavily, but turned to face the door.

Phil didn’t hover on the way to his car, but he also didn’t let Clint touch his own bag, other than to check that everything essential had been packed. Phil’s car had apparently been detailed, since the black sedan no longer had blood in the backseat from when Phil had brought Clint and the spy back to SHIELD. Clint eased into the passenger seat, then forewent the safety belt so it didn’t rub against his bruise all the way to Massachusetts.

“So,” Clint said, just over the border into Connecticut, half an hour into racking his brain for any information about how normal families did Christmas and what he would be required to do and coming up empty. “I don’t know anything about your family. What should I expect?”

Phil shrugged. “I’m an only child. My mother is English and already excited about having a new child to stuff with sweets all week. My dad usually gets the leave to spend with us, but he won’t show up until tomorrow.”

“What should I tell them about my injury?” Clint asked, soft. “I mean, do they even know what you do?”

Phil laughed at that, the first laugh Clint had heard from anyone since he was spotted and his surveillance op went south. “Her clearance is higher than mine. She’s probably read your medical file by now so she’ll know how to look after you.”

Clint turned, leaned against the door a little to support himself. “Now why does your sainted English mother have security clearance?”

Phil kept smiling and Clint opened a bottle of water. He liked this look on Phil, younger and more carefree, like he was sure his mom could save the day. “You know how SHIELD reports to the World Security Council? Well, that’s made up of representatives from major coalitions. NATO, the UN, the EU, APT, the African Union. Mom is the Secretary-General’s security counsel. He calls her when the WSC makes proposals to make sure that their logic is sound. She’s kind of his devil’s advocate.”

Clint took a long drink of water while he thought. “So your mom is sitting on the shoulder of Fury’s boss’ boss.”

“In a manner of speaking,” Phil said with a conspiratorial smile.

“Best Christmas ever,” Clint said.

 

**2\. Emma**

Clint was imagining a terrifying battleaxe of a woman, like Maria at 60, but humorless and strict. His first inkling that this might have been the wrong assumption was when they turned into the driveway of a gorgeous home covered in tasteful Christmas lights, with a bare Christmas tree in the front window. It had started to snow, so it looked like a postcard. The second was when the door opened, the two of them only halfway up the walk, and a woman with Phil’s best smile and open arms came bounding out to meet them.

“Philip!” she said, hugging Phil hard and kissing his cheek, making him smile. Clint was trying to edge away when she turned that grin on him. “And you must be Clint.” She looped an arm under his and hugged him just on the unbruised side. “Let’s get you both inside and bundled up. I made cookies.”

Phil looked at Clint over his mother’s head, as if to say “See?” and Clint just cracked up.

The house wasn’t any less picture-perfect on the inside. It was the kind of home that he’d always imagined regular people had when he was a kid in the circus, that he’d wished he could get adopted to before that, idyllic and warm. It made no sense to him that spies could live here. She showed Clint to his room for the week.

“This was Phil’s study when he was small,” she said, opening the curtains to let the sun in. “It was his playroom, but he insisted it was a study, just like Uncle John’s, right Philip?”

Phil came out of the bathroom, which apparently connected to Phil’s bedroom. “Yes, Mom. But then, I actually did homework in here, so eventually I was right.” She wrapped her arm around Phil and squeezed him again, seeming pleased just that he was here. Clint felt his airway constrict.

“All right, boys,” she said. “Come down for tea when you’re ready.” She left them, giving Clint one more warm smile, but Phil stayed.

“You okay?”

Clint nodded. “Just tired, I think.”

Phil squinted and Clint hated when he did that. It meant he’d seen through Clint’s ruse and was puzzling out why Clint had misdirected in the first place. “Well, let’s go downstairs for tea first and get some food in you so you can take another pain pill before you nap.”

Clint ground his teeth. It was hard enough being in this place that felt almost like fiction. He wasn’t sure he could take an hour of Phil’s mom being overjoyed at the sight of her son. But Phil, trusting his agents to fall in line, just turned and left, Clint obediently at his heel.

Mrs. Coulson was in the kitchen and Clint felt a weird sense of childlike wonder at the full English tea she’d set. There were sandwiches and cookies and scones, but it wasn’t fussy. The mugs were souvenir ones from tourist traps and the napkins had elves on them. “Come and sit,” she said. “Clint, I have so many questions for you.”

“Mom,” Phil whined.

“I already know what you do for a living, Philip. Sit and have your tea. I want to talk to your friend.”

Clint tried to laugh. “He told me you’d probably read my file before I got here.”

“Oh, I have,” she said, pouring him a cup of vanilla black tea. The smell alone was soothing. “But I know the vast difference between what an agent does and what goes in the file. For example, you qualified on a variety of weapons, but you keep coming back to the bow. Did you know that you’re the only active bow user in SHIELD right now? Why that weapon?” He could see how she was Natasha’s kind of spy, doing half of her work in evening gowns. So smooth, even to a non-target like Clint, that his brain automatically warned him against telling her anything and he bit his tongue. She must have seen it in his eyes, because her smile softened and she put her hand over his. “Oh, darling, I’m really just curious. My specialty was throwing knives, and you can’t imagine how annoying it was to keep requisitioning those. My partner had a particular penchant for the sword that was awkward to put in reports. I think it’s so interesting how people find the weapon that fits them.” She picked up her tea cup and and shared a quick look with Phil, who looked like he’d heard this before.

Clint suddenly thought of Phil as a child, being reassured that his mother would love him no matter what his choice of weapon, as if it were a sexuality, and smiled without meaning to. That just made her smile wider, so very much like Phil.  

“I’m a pretty accurate knife thrower. I was in the circus where that was kind of the standard, so the bow set me apart. But when I got into the Army and they put a compound bow in my hand?” Clint whistled and Mrs. Coulson laughed. “It’s so steady and so easy and I can hit a target like nobody’s business. Guns go in one direction, which is fine, I guess, but if you can read the wind, you can curve an arrow practically behind you.”

“And then he came to SHIELD,” Phil said.

“And then I came to Phil, which was the key.” Clint paused for a sip of his tea. “In the Army, my bow skills were a fun novelty, but the Army hardly fights man-to-man anymore and you can’t be a sniper with a weapon that tall. You’d look ridiculous. But Phil thought he had work for me and he brought me to Radinsky.”

“Petrov Radinsky, R&D. I think he was just excited to get to design a new kind of weapon.”

“Arrows with interchangeable specialty heads. Grappling hooks, incendiaries, poison, you name it.”

Mrs. Coulson sat forward on her seat, intrigued. “And it’s fast enough to use in the field?”

Clint nodded. “The whole thing is automated. Press the button on the bow and the arrow assembles itself.”

“Tell me you brought it?”

“Phil did the packing, but yeah, it’s with me. I think I’d feel naked without it.”

She put another sandwich and more cookies on his plate and he didn’t remember eating the first batch. “I understand that feeling. I wore a thigh holster until Phil started crawling. It had just been so long since I’d gone unarmed.”

“Mom, he got out of the hospital this morning. Please don’t make him shoot arrows for you.”

She scoffed, but refilled Phil’s cup. “I wouldn’t. Besides, we have to wait until your father gets here, so Clint doesn’t have to do it twice. You know he’ll be interested.”

Clint desperately wanted to ask what branch Phil’s father was in; needing “leave” for the holidays meant he was probably military. Overseas? Phil was almost 40, so his father had to be in his sixties, a little old for active duty. But he hesitated to ask, just in case Phil would rather he not know.

After their tea, Mrs. Coulson bundled them up in front of the fireplace with an icepack for Clint’s ribs and a book that she thought Phil would enjoy. She told Clint he was welcome to get up and choose a book from the shelves, but four minutes after sitting down, he was fast asleep.

 

There were pancakes for breakfast the next morning and Clint selected a Tom Clancy novel from the shelves to read while Mrs. Coulson (“Emma, love, please. We’re at least that friendly?”) made Phil help her hang stockings. “Don’t even dare offer to help. You sit there with your icepack and let me know if you need more tea.”

Phil, predictably, got out a level to make sure that the stockings were even and Clint hid a laugh behind his book. When the measuring tape came out, Clint couldn’t resist. “Do you go to this much trouble every year? We always just stuck the nails back in last year’s holes.”

“Ordinarily, I would too, but we’ve got an extra stocking to hang up, which throws off the spacing.” Phil stood back and looked at the marks he’d made before getting the hammer.

Clint paused, stalled out while his brain tried to fit this into anything he knew. He didn’t really understand why they would have gone to the trouble. He hadn’t had a stocking since the orphanage.

“I’m sorry, Clint, but your name isn’t on yours,” Emma said. “I didn’t have much warning and arts and crafts are not my strong suit. Next year, we’ll get you one to match.”

Next year, she said, like it was a done deal. Clint hid behind his book again because he didn’t know what else to do.

 

They were in the kitchen, Emma and Phil bickering good-naturedly over her cabinet full of teas and Clint hazy from the vicodin she’d forced on him when he’d been in almost too much pain to stand on his own, when the front door opened. “Emma?”

Clint had known a lot of people who had been married a long time, his own parents had been married a long time, but he’d never seen anyone brighten at a spouse’s return the way Emma did when she heard that voice. She practically ran for the front door and Phil rolled his eyes and selected a tea from the cupboard. “Don’t get up,” Phil said. “If you go out there, you’ll have to watch my parents make out.”

When Phil turned his back to fill the teapot, Clint leaned back a little farther than was comfortable to get a peek down the hall. At the front door, Phil’s dad had Emma dipped back to kiss her, and she was still smiling. Clint felt like he was intruding, intruding into this whole normal life, but before he could get his dizzy self up and to the back stairs, Phil was setting an empty cup in front of him. “I’m using the PG Tips,” he said. “Mom left, so that means I win.”

Clint felt like he should ask if he should leave them alone, but the one thing he trusted implicitly was that Phil Coulson would shoot straight. If he wanted Clint gone, he’d never hesitate to say so. So Clint just tried to not look too drugged when his dad came in.

Mr. Coulson stood in the doorway in a crisp black suit and sunglasses, which suddenly explained where Phil got it from. When Clint was in the Army, they were required to travel in their uniforms, but maybe that didn’t apply to generals. (From his demeanor and commanding presence, Clint assumed he was a general.) When the sunglasses came off, things got worse. Mr. Coulson’s craggy frown would ordinarily have made Clint and his authority issues hide in his bedroom all afternoon, but he broke into a grin as soon as he saw Phil and pulled him in for a manly, back-slapping hug. He asked Phil how he was and Emma took the opportunity to get the now boiling kettle and pour it over the bags in the teapot. He whispered to Phil, who smiled and whispered back. Then he turned and Clint got the full force of his unblinking glare. “So, you’re Clint Barton?”

Clint stood and offered his hand. “Yes, sir.”

He gave Clint a long look, serious and appraising, then suddenly smiled, which put Clint even more off-kilter. “Kevin Coulson. Welcome to our home.”

 

Clint wasn’t good at recuperation, usually bored with novels and daytime television after two days and up doing something that popped his stitches, but that was before he met Emma Coulson. She sat with him and talked to him over cups of tea, about his career, about adventures she’d had, and, finally, Phil.

“Phil is excellent at his job,” she said, the two of them sitting inside with their tea while Phil and his dad shoveled the driveway beyond the kitchen window. She took a vicodin tablet from the pill bottle Clint had brought down with him and set it on the edge of his saucer. “But he isn’t great at the rest of life. Especially the parts that require opening up to other people. He is so very much like his father that way.” Clint took another sip of his tea, watching Phil work. He was methodical, but Clint knew just what that much snow weighed. He’d bet anything Phil was sweating from the exertion.

“I see the way you look at him,” Emma said, hiding a smile behind her teacup. Clint stopped, going still as though that would help, somehow make him disappear from view. He really didn’t want the “back off” talk from a woman who might well be armed. But all she said before going quiet again was, “He looks at you too.”

 

**3\. Kevin**

Phil was grumbling when he came in, and Emma got up to fuss, to help her boys out of wet boots and gloves and heavy coats. “There’s water on for tea and I think you’ve earned a little whiskey in your cups. Come through.”

Clint knew that Phil was good in extreme temperatures, had seen him wear a suit jacket in the desert in summer and still move fast enough in weather below freezing to save lives, so he supposed that the cranky look on Phil’s face was more annoyance at being told by his dad to shovel the driveway. He still moved smoothly and Clint, floating on vicodin or just warm and happy, watched his hands move. He watched them come closer until Phil was standing in front of him. “Clint, now that I’ve finished my chores,” his tone was wry enough that even Emma laughed, “do you want to come watch tv?”

Clint smirked. “It’s 10 in the morning. Can we watch Price is Right?”

“It’s not on until 11 and you know that. Take your pill and come on.” Clint popped the one on his plate into his mouth and then followed Phil obediently to the den.

Clint liked the den. It was small and dark, used mostly for TV watching, but cozy. Clint flopped on one side of the sofa and Phil sat at the other, putting his feet up on the coffee table. He took control of the remote, which Clint expected. “Mathis or Judy?”

“Mathis.”

The first case was about a ruined wedding dress and a cheating husband, but the second was a bad roommate case. Practically every episode had a bad roommate case. “Remember when I moved to the Triskelion?” Clint says, half buried in the cushions. He loved this house. The cushions were the best. Also, the drugs were kicking in. “And I had to share a room with Linder? And we got into a fistfight and Fury had to separate us?”

“I remember it well.”

“How much better would this show be if Fury was the Judge?”

Phil laughed, surprised and loud. Clint smiled. He loved that sound, even when he wasn’t high. “I don’t know that Judge Mathis has the power to send the parties to the brig.”

“But Judge Fury would do it anyway. And that would be a great name for a show. Judge Fury. The Judge’s Fury.” Clint fell silent and Phil’s laughs subsided. During the next commercial break, he piped up with “Furious Justice?” and Phil started laughing again.

Smiling, pleased with himself, Clint pushed himself upright and then stood. “Be back. Need water or anything?” Phil shook his head, still smiling, and Clint headed for the bathroom.

The bathroom was just beyond the kitchen, but Clint paused when he heard Kevin and Emma talking over the breakfast dishes. He paused for a moment, out of sight. He liked listening to them talk. It was warm and fond and they seemed so happy that they were together. “Well, Phil is...” Kevin said.

“He’s stubborn,” Emma said. “Which he gets from you, so you get to deal with it. Did you talk to him?”

“I did. And he gave me the usual crap about not dating one of his agents.” Clint held his breath so that they wouldn’t hear him in the pause. “I told him that what he needs is someone who can keep up with him.”

“Like you can keep up with me.” He could hear her smile, picture it.

“Barely.”

“Well, between him and Clint, one of them is bound to see sense.” Clint bit the inside of his cheek, mind racing with what they could possibly mean (there was really only one thing it sounded like it meant), then headed toward the stairs to use the bathroom there.

 

Clint had panicked. He understood that. When Phil came up to find him half an hour later, he was curled up in bed, trying to understand why this was bothering him so badly. He’d done undercover work. This could just be undercover work. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to hide his true feelings from a mark.

“Hey,” Phil said. Clint’s eyes snapped open and Phil was resting against the door jamb, ankles crossed and looking so warm and comfortable and right here that Clint felt lighter just looking at him. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Clint said. “Just think I aggravated my bruise on the way up.”

Phil suddenly looked worried and pushed away from the door, sliding into action mode. “How? Was it a muscular pain or was it sharper?” Before Clint could brace himself, Phil was pushing the blanket down and Clint’s shirt up so he could press cool fingertips to the outline of the livid bruise.

“Oh my God,” Clint said, trying to squirm away. “I’m fine.” This was probably what other handlers did all the time and Clint really shouldn’t freak out about all the touching. Except that he’d never seen Phil touch another agent like this. Not even that time Sitwell had been knifed on a train.

Phil ignored him and sat on the edge of the bed so he could keep checking the bruise, inspecting the skin around it for signs of fresh internal bleeding. “Okay. I should probably get you an icepack for this.”

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I think I just need a nap.” Phil looked at him suspiciously, but then carefully replaced the shirt and the blanket, smoothing the blanket free of wrinkles. “This probably isn’t what you had in mind for Christmas.”

“Eh, it’s at least interesting. Usually by this point I’ve read whatever book I packed and am periodically falling asleep while trying to get through dad’s Updike collection.” Clint laughed, squirming until he was comfortable. “Rabbit at Rest took me four vacations.”

Clint felt warm and settled. It was always so much easier to fall asleep when he knew Phil was on watch. “Do you get up here a lot?”

“Not as much as I should. Back when I was a junior handler, I came up once a month to get Mom to cook for me.”

“Shit, I would too. SHIELD food is barely even food. I imagine there was a lot of begging to get the coveted guest bedroom spot.”

Phil shifted a little, his eyes skating away to take in the lamp, the clock, the door. “I’ve never brought anyone with me. It was too personal.” Clint had gone still, his brain turning the sentence over, when Phil got to his feet. “Okay, well, I’ll let you rest. I’ll come get you for tea.” In the next breath, Phil was gone, the door shut behind him. When Clint did finally fall asleep, thirty minutes later, he was still trying to figure out what made him special enough to peek behind the curtain.

 

Clint woke on his own and went downstairs when he could smell tea. Clearly Emma was in charge again, because the smell was sweet and floral. When he arrived at the kitchen, Phil and his father were sitting at the kitchen table, reading the paper. “Clint!” Emma said. “Sit down! Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah. Thanks.” Clint sat in the chair that had become his.

“He always pushes himself too hard,” Phil said, folding the newspaper and setting it aside.

“You know what you need?” Emma said, sing-song. “Just what Phil always wanted when he was sick.”

Phil’s eyes widened. “Mom. Oh God, no.” Clint couldn’t suppress a smile. He was getting good at recognizing Phil’s “this is going to be mortifying” face. It was maybe his new favorite Phil face.

Emma went into the pantry and came back with a mug and plate set bearing the smiling face of Captain America. “Why do you even have those?” Phil said, visibly pained.

“In case you get sick again! He’s pretending he hasn’t seen these in years, but I brought them to New York after he got shot in the arm.” She sat beside Clint and poured tea into the mug and, when the heat caused it to turn red, white, and blue, Clint barked with laughter.

“Oh God,” Kevin muttered. “Em, you spoil the boy.”

“He’s my only son. I’m allowed to spoil him.” She put the pot down and loaded Clint’s plate with cookies. “Besides, now I’m spoiling Clint.”

Clint lifted the mug to his face and smirked at Phil over the rim as he sipped. A smile tugged at the corner of Phil’s mouth.

 

After tea, there was Cluedo. And after Cluedo, there was dinner, with Clint peeling potatoes, Phil chopping, Emma nagging Phil about his knife technique, and Kevin asleep in the den. They ate comfortably, companionably, sharing intelligence gossip and theories regarding Project Runway. (Kevin seemed to know Heidi Klum personally, but refused to turn over her phone number to Emma, who had ideas.)

After dinner, Clint's eyes strayed to the trifle on the counter, but Emma prodded him into the living room instead. "Christmas Eve, my darling. Time to trim the tree!” While he’d been asleep, decorations had been brought out from somewhere: neat boxes of lights and a giant bin of shiny ornaments. While Phil and his father wound lights around the tree, Emma and Clint went through the bin, unwrapping ornaments and replacing hooks and such. Most of the ornaments were fairly self-explanatory, either colored balls or snowflakes or popsicle stick mangers with “Mom” written on in glitter. And then Clint’s hand brushed something scratchy. He reached in and pulled out a ceramic bride and groom, complete with poofy dress and top hat, standing on a plaque that said “1981 - Mr. & Mrs.” Underneath, in marker, was written “& PJ”.

“Oh, did that not make it back into the box last year?” Emma said. “I swear, Phil’s trying to break my beautiful keepsake.”

“It’s tacky as hell,” Phil says.

“It was sweet.” She reached out to take it from Clint, smiling as she adjusted the layers of lace to lie flat. “Kevin and I had never intended to get married,” she said. “But by then, Phil was 10 and it was clear neither of us was going anywhere. Phil used his Christmas allowance to get this for us.”

Phil sighed from behind the tree. “This is going to destroy my reputation. Watch, Mom. Clint is never going to take me seriously again and I’ll get busted back down to desk duty.” When he emerged from the other side of the tree with the strand of lights he was winding, he pointed at Clint. “This is why I don’t bring anyone home.”

 

There were a lot of good reasons why Clint had never made a move on Phil. Phil was his superior officer, Phil probably had better things to do than shepherd an emotionally stunted circus performer through his first grownup relationship, Phil probably liked his partners more competent. Another one had formed when they turned into the driveway the first afternoon: guys like Phil didn’t date guys like Clint. Guys with picture-perfect home lives and warm parents didn’t date runaways. Clint’s first relationship had borne that out.

David had lived near the base and Clint met him at the dry cleaners, where he was getting his dress uniform pressed. David was warm and sweet and he’d respected the need for Clint to stay closeted in the Army, but didn’t understand why Clint panicked at the thought of meeting David’s parents, who lived in a four bedroom house with a giant lawn on the other end of town. David, his parents, and his sister were close, and the idea was so alien to Clint that he broke up with David rather than go to his sister’s birthday party.

Clint had a very specific image in his head of those families, of those people and what they were like. He’d seen a lot of Hallmark movies and he and Nat had pretended to be normal a handful of times, including a stint as a married couple in Florida. The one thing those people weren’t supposed to do was like people like him. The Coulsons broke his whole world-view. They were a happy, close family, made up of people like him. It was fucking weird.

  


It wasn’t until Christmas morning, while Phil was shaving, that Clint felt comfortable asking. “Your dad, what branch is he in?” He knew he could trust Phil to just tell him when something was classified instead of lying.

Phil finished his stroke before replying. “MIB.”

Clint really liked watching Phil shave. He always did it on missions. Found it soothing or something, seeing the care in those steady hands, but that broke his concentration. “Phil. The MIB doesn’t exist.”

Phil caught his eye in the mirror and gave him that smirk again. “Just because they have access to mind-erasing technology doesn’t make them non-existent.”

Clint leaned in the doorway, watching Phil finish up. The MIB was a thing they told agents to look for when teaching them the international security systems. Like a digital snipe hunt. Clint hadn’t heard anyone else mention the MIB since the Weekly World News went out of business. He rolled his eyes. Clearly, Phil meant this in the same way. If Clint wanted the information, he was going to have to get it himself. Phil’s dad was a picture of military discipline, so that at least narrowed it down to the Pentagon.

 

Phil seemed to understand that Clint didn’t actually know anything about happy families or how they behaved, so he carefully shepherded him through the Christmas dinner, crackers and pudding, and then the traditional Coulson Family After-Dinner Scotch in the living room. Clint was feeling much more relaxed, from the combination of wine, scotch, Advil, and fireplace, and he had slumped against Phil’s shoulder, trusting that Phil would shake him off if he went too far. He’d noticed before that, the more they drank, the farther away “too far” got.

Mr. Coulson resettled himself and turned toward his wife. “Oh, a completely ridiculous thing happened at work this week. Em, you’ll enjoy it.” Clint’s eyes were half-closed when that hard gaze turned on him. “Clint, what’s your security clearance?”

“Level 3, sir.”

“Level 4,” Phil said. Clint’s eyes darted to him and Phil gave a smirk just like his father’s. “You needed Level 4 just to know where my parents lived.”

“Ah, well,” Mr. Coulson said, standing up. “It’ll have to wait until after the boys go to bed. Phil? Em? Another drink? No more for you, Clint. I can tell you’re feeling no pain.”

“Please, love,” Emma said.

 

That night, after Phil was asleep in his childhood bedroom and Clint was under the warm, heavy quilts in the spare room, Clint got his burner phone out of the bundle of things from medical and texted Natasha’s burner. “what’s the highest wsc sec clearance in us armed forces?”

He clutched the phone so he would feel it buzz when she texted back. “4. why?” Clint didn’t respond. He just deleted both messages.

 

The morning after Christmas, Clint woke up to snow stuck to the windows. He woke slowly, a little bit hungover and strangely happy to be here. There were already sounds coming up from downstairs, but Clint didn’t feel like he had to be there. He snuggled further under the covers and watched snow fall outside.

He’d been awake almost half an hour when Phil knocked and came in. Clint rolled onto his back. “Hey, boss.”

“Breakfast is almost ready. And I came to warn you, Mom has already dragged her targets out of the garage.”

After eggs and bacon (courtesy of Kevin Coulson, as his wife had spent the morning outside, throwing knives with Phil for fun), they put their coats and boots on and went into the backyard. The snow was still falling, just a little, just enough to be pretty (and for Phil and his dad to do some manly grumbling about whether it would stick and require more shoveling), but Clint laid his case on the patio table and introduced Emma to his bow. “Ooooh,” she said, cooing over it the way most women her age would coo over a baby. “Look at these tips!” She was so sweet and excited that he let her examine all of them, even though that privilege had only ever been previously afforded to her son. He assembled one manually, so she could see the mechanism, then loaded his quiver. “Are you sure you’re well enough to shoot?” she said, and he smiled as he nodded. He wasn’t perfect yet, and he’d be sore, but he wanted to shoot.

It felt good to be behind his bow again, even if he was just showing off in a backyard. He had picked it up since his injury, but hadn’t pulled the string, added that weight to his muscles and gone into that still, watchful place. He let the first one fly, a plain arrow, just so he could get a feel for the distance and the wind. He knocked it straight into the middle and he couldn’t help the little smirk that took over his face every time he hit a target dead center.

“Okay, Emma. You call it, and I’ll shoot it.”

She bounced on her toes, looking so pleased in her white cashmere coat. “Ready, Clint? Tracker.”  He hit the top button four times, listened for the mechanism to stop, then selected, nocked, drew, and fired in a single smooth motion. “Electro. Hook. Grapple.” He fired three times in quick succession, the last one trailing twenty feet of cable across the yard. Emma laughed and ran over to hug him and then on to inspect the arrows in the target. Phil and his father just stood on the deck with their mugs, exactly the same fond grin on their faces. Just catching sight of them out of the corner of his eye made Clint blush, like he’d caught something that was for family only.

“Your grouping is impressive,” Emma said, coming back over to where Clint stood. “I’d love to try your bow?” She waited for his quick nod before she smiled in response. “But first, I need more tea. Can’t feel my fingers.” She started back toward the deck. “Phil! Come help me get more tea.” Phil took his father’s mug and shot Clint a worried glance as he followed her, and Clint didn’t understand at first, until he realized that he was now alone in the yard with Kevin Coulson. At least he was armed.

Clint trudged to the target to retrieve his arrows, and Kevin followed, slow and contemplative. Clint found himself looking forward to this moment, to being told in no uncertain terms to stay away from Mr. Coulson’s only son. Clint was better with orders. There was a reason he joined the Army. “She’s right,” Kevin said. “Your grouping is pretty good. The weight of the rope is throwing you off a little, but less than it would throw most marksmen at your level.”

“Thank you, sir.” Clint put his arrows back into the quiver one at a time, listening to the mechanism disassemble them while he stood at parade rest.

When he turned, he took one look at Clint’s posture and smiled, almost warmly. “Come on, now. You can’t be that scared of me. You’ve seen me in my pajamas.”

“Sorry, sir. Old Army habit. Flares up around officers.” Clint wasn’t the spy that Natasha was, but he could do his digging when he needed to.

“Oh, I’m not an officer,” Kevin said, going back to the deck for his leather gloves. After he’d put them on and leaned against the railing, he nodded for Clint to join him.

Clint set down his quiver and went up to lean against the railing, appearing as relaxed as it was possible to be while the father of the man he was definitely in lust with prepared to threaten his life should Clint hurt his only son. “Then, can I ask what you do?”

“At your security level, not really. What did Phil tell you?”

“He said you were MIB.” He didn’t mention that he was pretty sure Phil was fucking with him.

Kevin just smiled a little bit. “Do you believe in aliens, kid?”

No one had called Clint “kid” since his first week in the Army. “Nah.”

“Why?”

Clint thought about it, watched through the kitchen window as Phil picked up mugs and Emma put her coat back on. “Not sure. I guess because I’ve never seen one, so I don’t have any evidence to contradict the official word.”

“The official word of your government. But the government tells you all sorts of things that aren’t true.” Clint’s brow wrinkled up. He was not expecting to take this wild left turn into conspiracy theory. He had just wanted to shoot his bow and impress Phil’s mother. “Can’t believe everything you hear.” There was a silence and the back door opened before he said, “At level four, I can tell you this: we’re not alone on this planet, the microwave oven is not a human invention, and Elvis isn’t dead.”

It was the last part that made Clint jerk upward. “Of course Elvis is dead. Been dead for like thirty years.”

“How do you know that? Did you see the body? Or are you just trusting your government again?”

Clint’s whole face went weird, like he’d been sucking on lemons. Nothing made sense and Phil was coming toward him with tea and a smile. “I thought you were just going to threaten to hurt me if I laid my hands on Phil.”

“Aw, heck no. Go ahead, lay your hands on Phil. It’d be good for both of you.” Kevin stood all the way up and went to meet Emma halfway, taking his coffee from her along with a kiss.

Clint was still trying to figure out how to respond to that last comment when Phil appeared in front of him with a steaming mug. “Hey. You look pale. Are you hurting? We can skip the demonstration.”

Clint looked at him and blinked several times, like that might help. “No. Just ... your dad is really intense.”

Phil laughed. “Even I know that’s an understatement.”

 

**4\. Phil, Again**

After dinner, Emma tucked “the boys” up on the sofa with their books and a fire going before she took her husband on a walk in the snow. Clint kept looking at Phil, and, about half the time, he got caught. It hadn’t been twenty minutes when Phil grinned and said, “What?”

It would have been so easy to say something then. But everything inside Clint locked up. He could suddenly see all of Phil’s possible responses to a sudden declaration of love or whatever, and not even half of them worked out in Clint’s favor.

He’d been silent too long, and Phil cocked his head, which meant he was going to instead figure out what Clint was thinking all on his own. “Just think it’s time for another pill,” Clint said.

“Is your back achy or is it stiff?” Phil said, already getting up. “I could grab you a hot water bottle.”

When he came back from the kitchen with the pill bottle, Clint was smirking. “Who has a hot water bottle anymore?”

Phil handed over a single pill and then set the bottle on the coffee table. “Elderly English women.”

Clint swallowed the pill with a mouthful of lukewarm tea. “I’m going to tell your mom you called her elderly.”

“Then you certainly need to get that injury under control, since you’ll have to drive us back to SHIELD after she breaks both my arms.” He sat again, head disappearing behind his book and toes tucking under the blanket, and Clint just smiled.

 

That night, when Phil brought in a glass of water for Clint, intending to supervise him taking his medication to keep Clint from leaving himself in pain and not sleeping, all Clint could hear was Kevin’s words in his head. “You okay?” Phil asked, setting the water down on the nightstand.

“Yeah. just sit,” Clint said, tugging at Phil’s arm until he sat on the edge of the bed. “I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

Clint hadn’t really thought this through and he didn’t know what to say. He stumbled over “Your dad said” twice before he just yanked Phil down and kissed him.

Phil was clearly surprised at first, but then Clint could feel the smile tugging up the corners of his mouth, feel the brush of eyelashes when Phil’s eyes closed. It wasn’t as smooth as he’d hoped their first kiss would be, but he also hadn’t been tased yet, so it was probably going okay.

Phil pulled away, but left his hand resting on Clint’s hip, enough so Clint knew this hadn’t gone badly. When he opened his eyes, Phil was definitely smirking. “My dad told you to jump me?”

“Basically,” Clint said. “And your dad kind of scares me, so I’m following instructions.”

“Well,” Phil said, leaning forward to press Clint back against the pillows. “Now I know you’re lying, because you never follow instructions.”

“I do too!” Clint said, unable to stop the smile as his arm snaked around Phil’s waist. He’d been hoping for this, spent a lot of lonely nights at home imagining this, how their banter would translate when horizontal.

“You mean like when I told you to wait for backup and instead you jumped a railing and chased Kolchek through an anniversary party at the Met last week?”

“Okay, in my defense,” Clint started, but he was cut off by Phil’s mouth pressing over his again. This time, it was Phil’s whose tongue carefully explored, licking the inside of Clint’s lip and testing the sharpness of his teeth.

“I’ve wondered if that would work,” Phil murmured, sticking close. “If kissing would shut you up.”

Clint covered a sudden spike of nervousness by sliding his thumb under the hem of Phil’s t-shirt and sweeping it back and forth across the warm skin at his hip. “How long have you wondered?”

Phil sighed and pulled back a little. Clint’s hand clamped around his hip, afraid Phil would go too far and break the spell. Phil compromised by laying down beside Clint, the blankets separating them. “I’ve been harboring this little crush since you were assigned to me,” Phil said, not quite meeting Clint’s eyes. “But it’s always been my policy not to get involved on a personal level with my agents. I was afraid it would compromise my ability to lead.” His hand settled on Clint’s waist, and Clint wished it was on skin. “Then I made the mistake of mentioning that to Mom, who pointed out that she was Dad’s trainer when they got together.”

“And it worked out okay for them?”

Phil rolled his eyes. “Obviously.” Clint was leaning in for another kiss when Phil used the hand on his waist to stop him. “Clint, this is ... this is a thing, right? This isn’t just because you’re bored and high and it’s Christmas?” Phil looked so worried, so much more vulnerable than Clint was used to. It honestly terrified him that he could do that to Phil.

“I’ve been dreaming about this for years,” Clint said. “So no, I’m not letting you go until you wise up and dump me.”

Phil’s hand cupped Clint’s cheek. “There’s nothing to ‘wise up’ about. You’re a brilliant agent, a fine tactician, and my favorite person to talk to. I’d be crazy to leave this.”

Clint would ordinarily say something self-deprecating, point out his own flaws to win the moral victory, but he now had a better option, so he just tilted in and flicked his tongue over Phil’s mouth. Phil made a soft sound, like a moan, but more open, and Clint started to run his hand up Phil’s side, under his shirt. “Off?” Phil sat up and stripped off his shirt as fast as he could. Clint grinned and pulled off his t-shirt, then wiggled out of his shorts under the comforter.

“Fuck,” Phil muttered, dragging the sheets down to reveal Clint’s skin. He went slowly, skated careful fingers around the fading bruise, and Clint felt like he was being savored. When he was naked to the thigh, he slid a hand around his half-hard cock and Phil just looked up at him, lost.

“What?” Clint asked, stroking slowly. It was kind of novel to not have to imagine Phil when he did that.

“You have no fucking idea, do you? How good you look naked?” Clint would have responded, but Phil was sliding his mouth over just the head of Clint’s cock, tongue flicking in a way that made Clint’s shoulders jerk up from the bed.

“Phil, Christ,” his hand slid down to the back of Phil’s head and he tried not to thrust up. Phil was teasing him, and Clint had never imagined that. He hadn’t thought Phil was capable of something as frivolous as that kind of teasing. But Phil was not moving downwards at all, just watching Clint’s face while he ran his tongue around every square millimeter of the head of Clint’s cock. “Phil, this is so unfair.”

“Why?” Phil asked, pulling off. He just looked at Clint like he was waiting for an answer and Clint whined because he wanted Phil’s mouth back where it was. Phil finally cracked a smile, clearly pleased at himself for committing what Clint felt was clearly torture, and then dragged his tongue down the length of Clint’s cock, ending with a drag over Clint’s knuckles. Clint pulled his hand away, suddenly afraid that he’d come before they were even properly started, but that just gave Phil the opening to wrap his mouth around the base and his hand around the head and Clint fought to drag in breath, nails digging into Phil’s shoulder.

“Phil, stop,” he begged, trying to tug on Phil’s shoulder, but Phil just ignored him, stroking the long length of Clint’s cock and humming softly against the skin. Clint pressed his cheek into the pillow. He couldn’t even distract himself, try to slow down. He couldn’t remember why he would. When Phil suddenly slid his mouth over the top half and started stroking the bottom half twice as fast, Clint bit the inside of his cheek to keep from sobbing. “Close,” he said, scratching at Phil’s back. “Phil, close.” Phil just looked up at him, perfectly peaceful, and slid down as far as he could. Clint curled over Phil, twisting both of his hands in the sheets as he came. Phil never for a moment let him look away and Clint felt dizzy, out of control, twitching and shaking in an effort not to scream.

When he was done, when his muscles finally unclenched and he had to put a hand behind himself to keep from slumping back to the bed, Phil still didn’t pull off. He just kept teasing Clint, even though it felt like way too much. “Okay, quit it,” Clint said, cupping the back of Phil’s head and drawing him up into a kiss. Phil was veritably smirking when their mouths met. “You are too good at that,” Clint said. “Oh God, I haven’t come like that since my first time.”

“That fast?” Phil said.

“That hard,” Clint replied, unimpressed.

“So then you’re always that fast?” Phil just looked smug as he scooted up to the head of the bed and laid down.

“You’re insufferable,” Clint said, pulling down Phil’s flannel pajama pants and boxer briefs. Clint’s throat clicked when he finally got his hand around Phil’s surprisingly thick cock. “I want you to fuck me.”

Phil pulled him down to the pillows, turned to face him. “And I want you to fuck me, but there’s no way I can stay quiet enough. That will have to wait until we get back to New York.” Clint dragged his hand up and down a couple of times, then tugged and Phil made a soft, desperate noise. It was somehow the most incredible thing that had happened all night. Phil sounded so fragile and Clint suddenly understood how much of a risk this was for both of them, opening up like this. He kissed Phil hard, opening his mouth and swallowing those wonderful little noises.

Phil was distracted. His kissing technique fell apart. He got sloppy, would just stop moving for long seconds, and Clint fucking loved it. He could tell by the movement of Phil’s tongue just how good of a handjob it was. And when Phil finally broke away, unable to kiss at all anymore, that just left Clint’s mouth free to talk.

“I’m not going back to my apartment,” Clint whispered. “When we get back to New York? I’m going to your place, giving you five minutes to check the mail, then I’m stripping you naked and getting you on that king size bed.” Phil didn’t open his mouth, but a whimper still escaped his throat. Clint slowed his strokes down a little, twisting his hand and making it last. “We’re both old enough that we know what gets us off, and I know you’re a great teacher. I want you to show me every way to make you scream. I want you to finger me until I come without a hand on my cock. And then I want you to fuck me until I’m hard again.” Phil pressed his face to Clint’s neck, muffling his shout as he bucked his hips up and came. Clint didn’t change his speed, just slowly stroked Phil through it, knowing how much more tortuous it could be if the last part took longer.

Phil was still lying on his back, blinking up at the ceiling and catching his breath, when Clint splashed water from the glass on the nightstand onto his discarded shirt and cleaned them both up. Clint took the opportunity to press a kiss to the sensitive strip under Phil’s bellybutton and his cock jerked. Phil grabbed Clint and pushed and pulled at the same time, whining and fussing. “Stop. Stay. C’mere.”

Clint laughed and pitched the shirt back at his bag, then crawled up to the pillows, stretching out in Phil’s arms. It felt good. He felt good. He had no frame of reference for this set of feelings, happy, calm, affectionate, sated, but he wanted to indulge, to just lie here. He didn’t want to fall asleep and miss it, but he knew that against the tag team of orgasms and vicodin, it was bound to happen.

“Good,” Phil said, sliding close enough to bury his nose in Clint’s hair. “Good. Thanks.”

Clint can’t help his laughter. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”

“Whatever. Was great.”

“Oh my God, sex makes you stupid. Wait until I tell Nat.”

Regular Phil would tell him that he would not, under any circumstances, share that detail with Natasha, but this Phil, naked and warm and pressed close, just mumbled and then pressed his face into the pillow. His arm stayed looped over Clint’s waist, keeping them pressed together, but Clint found that he didn’t mind. He reached out to turn off the light, then settled in to enjoy the closeness as long as he could.

 

Clint was woken suddenly by two sharp raps at the door and Mr. Coulson’s voice. “Boys, breakfast.”

He wanted to leap clear, keep anyone from finding out, keep Phil’s heavily armed parents at bay, but Phil just grumbled and pulled Clint closer, clearly trying to go back to sleep. “I thought you were a morning person,” Clint said, wiggling.

“Yeah, but there was sex. I think my body is still trying to recover.”

Clint rolled over, to face Phil, and tried to sound nonchalant when he said, “So, your parents know about us.”

Phil laughed. “Clint, my mother’s a spy and my dad put you up to this. I’d be more worried if they didn’t know.”

“And you’re okay with that? That’s okay?”

“I mean, she’s going to be insufferably smug until we leave. And then she’s probably going to start calling you to check in. But, you know, typical Mom stuff.” Phil stretched, then ducked back down to kiss Clint, comfortable like this was how mornings always started. “Okay, clothes, food, Price is Right.”

In fresh clothes and with scrubbed hands and face, Clint walked out of his room to find Phil waiting by the stairs, even though the whole house smelled like pancakes. Clint smiled and Phil squeezed his hand before turning and leading him down to the kitchen.

“There you are!” Emma said, her whole face beaming.

She kissed Phil’s cheek, and he muttered a “Morning, Mom.” Then she kissed Clint’s cheek and he said, “Good morning, Emma.”

Her nose scrunched up and her hand landed on his back when she said. “I think, under the circumstances, you should probably call me Mom too.”

Clint felt this weird well of wonderfulness spring up, this perfect house and this perfect guy and his perfect parents all opening up their world to his carnie dropout ass. He couldn’t help his smile when he said, “Good morning, Mom.”

 

**5\. Emma, Again**

Years later, in the aftermath of the Battle of New York, it falls to Nick Fury to call Emma Coulson. She is a brilliant tactician and possibly the world’s foremost analyst of the villainous mind. He also has her only son on life support. Nick Fury probably should have told her himself, but he hid behind the need for privacy and sent a coded message that Phil was being airlifted to a secure facility near Boston. He had a carrier to get to safety and a war criminal to deal with, but he also ordered the transfer of Clint to the same facility for testing to make sure he was really okay and personally escorted him.

He would have been the one to tell Clint about Phil, but Natasha had beaten him to it, whispered when he was still coming out of the haze so that he could fall apart and not feel weak for it. Clint was full of righteous anger when he landed in Manhattan and that had worked for them. But on the helicopter to Boston, Nick sees Clint rub repeatedly at the black X inked at the base of his left ring finger, the symbol that means he’s taken. His stomach clenches with guilt, but he has to do this. This isn’t the first time he’s had to do something morally questionable to his own men.

He’s quiet when they get into the car and Nick focuses on his phone. “I should call Mrs. Coulson,” Clint says, looking steadily out of the window. “Maybe after we get to the hospital?”

“She’s coming down to Boston,” Nick says, his lies smoother than his truths. “I told her I was bringing you there.”

Clint almost smiles at that. “She shouldn’t be having to look after me at a time like this.” Clint looks down at his hands again, face falling, and Nick checks his messages.

Clint gets settled into a private room in the psych ward, all exits guarded heavily. Ordinarily, they would use the secure basement, but it’s otherwise occupied.

Nick walks into the secure unit an hour after Kevin Coulson arrives. The SHIELD agent on the detail told him that Mrs. Coulson had spent the three hours prior to that holding Phil’s hand. Nick did not like his chances for this job.

As soon as he opens the door, she catches sight of him in the glass opposite and whirls to her feet, hissing. “Where is his team? What aren’t you telling me? Where is Clint?” Phil’s father is, unnervingly, sitting still where she left him. Nick is almost certain that they’re both armed, secure unit or not.

He puts his hands up, placating. “Mrs. Coulson, if you’d just give me a minute to explain.” She pulls back, but crosses her arms, expectant. “When Phil was … attacked, he was pronounced dead on the scene. His last words to me were that he hoped his death could at least unite his team. A few minutes later, I got word that his heart was beating again, but I was desperate. I had to take that avenue.” He takes a deep breath. “As far as the Avengers know, Phil’s still dead.”

Mrs. Coulson’s eyes just go wide, but Mr. Coulson finally speaks. “Including Clint?”

Nick nods. The Coulsons look at each other and have a silent conversation that Nick tries to ignore. “He’s why I came down here. Clint was compromised during the mission, mind-controlled by Loki and bent to his will. He seemed to snap out of it, but I have to be sure. I brought him here to be evaluated.” He takes a deep breath. “I was hoping you would go up and talk to him. He keeps asking to call you.”

Mrs. Coulson’s eyes blaze again and she heads toward the door. “I’d be glad to.”

“But I need the fact that Phil’s alive to remain between us.”

She stops, close enough that her gaze bores a hole through Nick. “You want me to lie to him? We’re his family.”

“The team is still fragile and I need to hold on to his anger, just until Loki is off-world and we can be certain that the threat has passed.”

He expects to have to defend himself, but she just draws herself up, composes herself beautifully like the diplomat she can be. “Well, then, I still would like to see him.” She turns to nod at her husband and then allows Nick to escort her up to Psychiatric.

“Director,” the doctor who intercepts them says. “We’re just about to take Mr. Barton in for his MRI.”

“We’ll just be a moment,” Mrs. Coulson says, smoothly sliding past him.

Clint has been removed from his tactical suit and is having his wounds tended to when they come up. His whole face goes open and honest when he sees her through the window, clearly glad to see her, but his grief doubled in the face of what he expects is her own. Nick allows her to go in ahead of him and she goes right to him, wrapping him in a hug.

“Mom,” he whispers. She holds him for a minute and then his voice breaks with a harsh, horrible sob. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She presses her cheek to his temple and Nick wants to look away, but he can’t. He doesn’t quite trust this to go as planned. “Don’t be. It wasn’t your fault. I’m so glad that you’re all right. Who had to tell you, love? Someone from the government? Agent Romanoff? Director Fury?” Clint nods weakly, and then Mrs. Coulson ducks her head close to his ear. He tenses all over, but the sobs cease and she kisses his temple. “They’re going to take you for tests now, but Kevin and I will be here, all right?”

He nods and takes her hand for a last squeeze. “Thank you.”

When she’s gone back to the elevator and Clint has been helped into a wheelchair, Nick stops him. “Barton, what did she say to you?”

“Sir?” he asks, looking young and fragile in his gown, but Nick knows better.

“When Mrs. Coulson whispered to you, you looked better. What did she say?”

“Elvis, sir. She was reminding me of Elvis. I take great comfort in his music.”

Nick was still puzzling over that when the orderly wheeled Clint away.

 


End file.
